


Bad Puppy

by Neffectual



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental wetting, Bed-Wetting, Come Eating, Desperation Play, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom Vesemir, Felching, Fuck Palace Kaer Morhen, Geralt has fangs, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, Jealousy, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Pet, Monster!Geralt, Multi, Ownership, Pet Names, Puppy Play, Rimming, Scent Kink, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sub Lambert (The Witcher), Switch Eskel (The Witcher), Topping from the Bottom, Trans Lambert (The Witcher), Vesemir Has Sex (The Witcher), Watersports, Wetting, briefly mentioned Geralt/Yen, canon typical opinions on sex work, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: When Jaskier finds out one of Geralt's kinks, he's delighted with how well it lines up with his own. And so, Jaskier gets a puppy, and discovers that his puppy doesn't like it when he plays with others - that is, until they go up to Kaer Morhen, and Geralt learns that he can be both Jaskier's puppy and part of the pack.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert/Vesemir, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert/Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Witchers
Comments: 51
Kudos: 667
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thirteenthesiac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirteenthesiac/gifts).



> For this kinkmeme prompt: Geralt pisses all over AND inside Jaskier to claim his territory. Jaskier is so fucking into it.
> 
> I, uh... got a bit carried away.  
> With thanks to my incredible wife, who spotted this prompt and encouraged me to fill it.

It had started quite by accident. Jaskier had come back from a wonderful few hours of getting fucked by a man he’d just met, and snuck into the bed he had to share with Geralt sometime just before dawn. Whereupon, Geralt had rolled over, pinned him to the thin straw mattress, and growled.

“You stink of him,” he’d said, and Jaskier had laughed at the idea that anyone couldn’t smell the come leaking out of him, or that was marking his lower back, or had been rubbed into the skin on his face and lingered in his eyebrows. And then Geralt had licked a strip up his face, and Jaskier’s laugh had turned from mocking to delighted.

“You’re like a _dog_ ,” he’d said, laughter still chasing his words. “What’s the matter, puppy, do I smell too much like someone else?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Geralt had snarled, grinding his hips against Jaskier’s thigh, and the bard’s laughter had abruptly cut out.

“What are you going to do about it?” he’d asked, and held his breath as he waited for the answer. When none came, he hadn’t been able to help but push. “Well, puppy, what are you going to do about it?”

Geralt had rumbled out a sound that was too soft to be a growl, closer to a purr than anything Jaskier would dare to admit, slid under the blankets, and began to lick up the stranger’s come where it was dripping out of him.

Jaskier had never come so hard from something so obviously filthy.

It took a while for the bard to work out that Geralt actually hated it when he went and fucked around. Women, fine, but men were seen as a challenge, a threat, and so whenever Jaskier came back, sated and fucked out, Geralt would pin him down and wring another slow, torturous orgasm out of him with his tongue. Then he would take himself in hand and spill all over the bard, marking his territory in no uncertain terms.

“Oh, brilliant,” Jaskier said, after the fourth or fifth time this had come up, as it were. “Now not only do I need a bath; you need to rinse your mouth.”

Geralt kissed him, instead, pushing the taste of the stranger’s come into his mouth before swiping his fingers through his own release and shoving them in Jaskier’s mouth.

“I really need to learn to shut my mouth sometimes,” Jaskier mused, even as Geralt gathered more come on his fingers and pushed them past those soft, plush lips again. 

“Or your legs,” Geralt said, drily.

“Don’t really go in for that,” Jaskier shot back, relishing in the old joke. “But I have to say, I wasn’t quite expecting you to be such an animal, Geralt. What next, marking me up with your teeth?”

“Hmm,” Geralt mused, and once more, Jaskier cursed his chattering tongue.

The next time Jaskier came back to their shared room reeking of another man, he’d done so on purpose. Geralt hadn’t touched him for days, and he was starting to feel a little like the Witcher didn’t care what he did. So, he’d been fucked by not one, but two different men, and refused their offers to wipe him down after, pulling clothes back on and heading straight back to Geralt. 

The scent was so strong that he could smell it, the thick tang of semen, where one of the men had come on his face and in his hair, something Jaskier would usually find upsetting, but this time he just knew it would drive Geralt to want to touch him, to erase the scent of others on his bard.

He didn’t even get as far as the bed, Geralt sitting up almost instantly upon his entry into the room and sniffing, before making a face of disgust. He turned, the sheet dropping down and giving Jaskier a mouth-watering view of his large, powerful, very naked body.

“What did you do, bathe in it?” he asked, lip curling.

“Oh, smelling me like a dog again, are we? The great White Wolf, reduced to a slavering cur by the scent of another man’s come?” Jaskier knew taunting Geralt wasn’t a smart move, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d never been good at self-control. “What is it, boy? What do you smell?”

“You reek of… two men,” Geralt ground out, stalking closer and pressing his nose to Jaskier’s neck, breathing in the scent. Jaskier felt his knees weaken a little. “Were you so greedy for touch that you needed two of them to sate you, or did they offer to have you between them?”

“Had to convince them,” Jaskier managed, voice breathy with want. He really needed to get higher standards, if this was all it took to get him hard again, a massive mountain of a man snuffling against him to find the scent of other men on him. “Didn’t want to share, but they decided I was a good enough prize that neither wanted to give up.”

“You’re not a bone to be fought over,” Geralt growled, ignoring the irony as he licked along Jaskier’s throat, the bard tilting his head with a whine to give him better access.

“Mm, yes,” Jaskier managed, giving in and sliding his hands into Geralt’s hair, “and why is that?”

“Because you’re _mine_ ,” Geralt snarled, grazing too-sharp teeth over Jaskier’s throat, and suddenly he remembered all the tales of Witchers having the teeth of monsters - fangs, horns, claws - and felt almost afraid. Almost. “You don’t get to come back to my bed - “

“Ah, ah, I believe my coin paid for this room tonight,” Jaskier added, just to be contrary.

“ _My bed_ ,” Geralt repeated, the growl constant now, “smelling of someone else.”

“As if you’ve never come to bed after fucking some whore,” Jaskier retorted, in what was certainly an unwise move. It never did to tease Geralt, but it was just too much fun. “What’s the difference?”

Geralt’s growl got even louder, and he dragged Jaskier back towards the bed, practically tearing his clothes off. Jaskier might have left a few buttons undone to expedite that process, but he wasn’t about to say that. He just let Geralt have his way, pulling his hair and arching to let Geralt’s mouth cover his throat.

The next morning, he desperately tried to adjust his collar so it looked less like he’d been mauled in the night, while Geralt looked quietly smug. The bruises were intense, and took days to fade, especially because Geralt kept refreshing them whenever they stopped for five minutes. The way Jaskier keened into the bites even convinced the Witcher to stop filing down his teeth - which it turned out, were more than just a rumour.

Jaskier should really have worried about how much that turned him on.

Jaskier hadn’t had to fuck other men for several weeks, Geralt on him the second they were behind closed doors or camped far enough away from the road for the night, rubbing his face against Jaskier’s skin like he could scent mark the bard. Jaskier’s whole body was deliciously sore all the time, and he was quite happy to let Geralt get his hands on him at any point.

They camped for the night in an old cave, Geralt stalking in and taking a deep breath before telling Jaskier that the previous occupant had departed some time ago.

“You’re a good dog, good boy,” Jaskier crooned, and then shivered as Geralt turned to stare at him, eyes wide, cat-like pupils blown wide. “Oh. Oh. Do you like that? You want to be my good dog?”

The tiny whine that escaped Geralt’s throat was enough to make Jaskier grin, needing no answer.

“You do, don’t you? My good boy, you want to be a sweet puppy for me?” If anything, the noise Geralt made was even quieter, but far more needy, and Jaskier congratulated himself silently for being so good at reading people, never mind that he’d been travelling with Geralt for a couple of years before working this out. “So, all that posturing, all that wanting to be on top, was that just your way of hiding how much you wanted to be good for me?”

Geralt growled a warning, and Jaskier laughed, grabbing their bedrolls from Roach and vanishing deeper into the cave, secure in the knowledge that Geralt would follow him. He’d barely finished laying them out when Geralt, somehow divested of his armour, pounced on him, nuzzling and nipping at him.

“Puppy wants playtime?” Jaskier asked, delighted, sliding his hands into Geralt’s hair and pulling, relishing in the whine the Witcher let out. “What a good puppy you are, I think I’ve got a treat for you here.”

Geralt huffed, but got the bard’s cock out anyway, giving Jaskier the messiest head he’d ever had, the Witcher drooling down his shaft in a way that would certainly stain his silks, but for once, Jaskier couldn’t care less. Geralt swallowed him down like he’d been trained in that as well as swordplay, and Jaskier found himself undone by it far too soon, gasping as his hands twisted in Geralt’s hair, begging.

“That’s it, good puppy, so fucking good, sweet pup, that’s it, you’re such a good boy for me - “ Jaskier went silent as he came, arching with a silent scream, and it took him a good few moments to realise that Geralt had shifted to be able to rut against his thigh, grinding his hardness against the bard’s leg. “Good puppy, you can come for me, hump your master’s leg, such a dirty puppy for me, fuck, Geralt, why didn’t you tell me you were into this, it’s so fucking gorgeous on you, you’re such a good dog for me.”

Geralt howled as he came, animalistic and loud, unfettered, spilling all over Jaskier’s breeches, and baring his teeth, growing sharper with more time being left to grow freely. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever been more beautiful.

“Bet I smell of you now,” Jaskier panted, as Geralt settled with his head on the bard’s chest, content to have his hair petted as he came down from his orgasm. “Bet anyone could tell I’m yours, with how I smell now. That’d keep all the others away, wouldn’t it?”

“I could just piss on you,” Geralt muttered, seemingly not too impressed at having his afterglow filled with chatter. “That’d make it all fucking easier.”

Jaskier shut up. It was that or say something he was fairly certain he’d have to soundly deny later. He might not be able to see the future, but he knew how Geralt could be.

The night after Geralt fucked Yennefer for the first time, he stood awkwardly behind Jaskier as he demanded two rooms, and if not, at least two beds in one room. They were given the latter, and Jaskier didn’t speak to Geralt all the way up the stairs and into the room. When Geralt tried to move closer, Jaskier stepped away, mouth tight and silent, busying himself with stripping off his bloody chemise and dabbing at it ineffectually with cold water, his back to the Witcher.

“Are you going to say anything?” Geralt asked, but he was quieter than usual, less commanding, less of a demand for a response. “Look, I’m sorry I said that about your singing, I - “

“This isn’t about my singing,” Jaskier said, shortly, still refusing to look at the Witcher.

“I didn’t know I had the damn wishes, Jaskier, or that the djinn would take it that way!” Geralt roared, and Jaskier turned, watching those fangs flash impassively, the fangs he’d shown no fear at, the fangs that he often felt at his throat or nipping at his thigh, marking him. He waited, silently, until Geralt composed himself. “I didn’t want your voice gone, I just wanted - “

“A little peace,” Jaskier said, quietly. “I know. So, here’s your peace.”

He turned back to his chemise, sighing as he submerged it in the cold water in the vain hope it might take the stain out.

“So, this is how you intend to punish me for taking your voice,” Geralt stated, and then startled as Jaskier barked out a laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“You think this is about my voice?” Jaskier asked, spinning to stare at the Witcher, face unreadable. “That this is about you wanting some quiet because you were struggling to sleep, or because you were rude about my singing? That you wouldn’t give me a minute to explain that I thought I knew what you needed?”

“Then what is it about?” Geralt snarled, and Jaskier shook his head.

“Oh no, you don’t get to snarl at me, you don’t get to be an animal now, when it suits you,” he said, voice almost tender with hurt and anger. “Were you an animal for her?”

“For - what?” Geralt asked, but Jaskier didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“Is that what she gave you, could you be a good dog for her, did you whine and whimper for her touch, Geralt?” He shook his head with barely disguised distaste. “I saw you beneath her, belly up, like a good submissive _cur_ trying to be a lap dog.”

“I didn’t - “ Geralt started, but he stuttered into silence in the face of Jaskier’s anger. His shoulders dropped, defeated, and he turned for the bed closest to the door. Before he got there, though, he turned back, clearly deciding to plead his case. “It isn’t… it’s not something you can’t have, you know.”

Jaskier folded his arms.

“What isn’t?” he asked, flatly. “As you always say, speak plainly.”

“Me, beneath you,” Geralt said, quietly. “If you want it. If you want me. You can.”

Jaskier took a slow, deep breath, and let it out, some of the tension leaving his body with it.

“Another night,” he said, softly. “Not tonight. But another night.”

Geralt hated how, in his heart, he knew that had he been cursed with one, his tail would have thumped happily with the promise of another night.

It took some time for Jaskier to forgive Geralt, to be willing to let the Witcher get near again. It started with the press of Geralt’s chin to Jaskier’s shoulder, soft, fleeting touches that were nothing like what he craved, but were enough to quiet the beast inside that _wanted_ so badly.

Eventually, one night in the woods, he dropped to his knees at the bard’s feet while he played, and instead of Jaskier getting up and moving, as he had every other time, he set down his lute and, still singing, began to stroke Geralt’s hair. The pleasure from that simple motion was so strong that Geralt was glad he was already kneeling, glad that Jaskier couldn’t see his face well in the dark.

When the song ended, Jaskier leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to Geralt’s hair, before cupping his jaw and making Geralt look up at him.

“Are you a good puppy?” he asked, voice lacking the usual playfulness it held when they played those games.

Geralt nodded, keeping eye contact.

“Alright,” Jaskier said, quietly. “Then don’t ever let anyone else think you’re a stray. If you’re mine, then you have to act like mine, and not run around letting anyone pet you. Good puppies are _owned_ , Geralt, or they aren’t good.”

Geralt nodded again, slower this time, not trusting his voice, not trusting the words he was so bad at not to betray him and break this fragile peace.

“Go wait for me on the bedrolls,” Jaskier said, and busied himself with putting his lute away as Geralt obediently headed for where their bedrolls were pressed together and started taking off his clothes. He settled on all fours, head down, expecting to be taken without much mercy.

Instead, he was gently coaxed to turn over, and Jaskier was meeting him for a kiss, soft but hungry. 

“I thought - “

“I know,” Jaskier said, quietly. “But taking you isn’t what makes you mine, is it, pup?” He tugged gently on Geralt’s hair and smiled at the little whine the Witcher gave.

“Yours,” he murmured, and got rewarded with another kiss. “All yours.”

“Don’t forget it,” Jaskier hummed, settling into Geralt’s lap happily - and when had he had time to remove his clothes? - and kissing him again. “You don’t want me to have to get you a collar, do you? A collar with my name worked into the leather, so everyone knows who you belong to?”

Geralt’s whimper betrayed him more than his words ever could have, and Jaskier grinned.

“Oh, we do want that? Don’t worry, I’d only make you wear it for me, not all the time. Well, not unless you were bad,” he said, and Geralt surged forward with a growl, knocking Jaskier over and pinning him to the ground, pressing his mouth against the bard’s throat, where he kissed at the area the djinn had left swollen, whining as he nosed against it. “I know, puppy, I know, you’re good for me, my good boy, it’s alright.”

Frustrated, Geralt ground his hips against Jaskier’s thigh, and the bard pulled out a bottle of oil. Geralt’s eyes went wide.

“I thought - “ he said again, voice cracking. He licked his lips nervously.

“I know,” Jaskier repeated, as he slicked up his fingers, then shifted Geralt back and spread his own legs, working a finger inside himself. “But you haven’t had me like this yet, and I think I’ve waited long enough to let my puppy mount me.”  
  
Geralt couldn’t pull his eyes away from between Jaskier’s legs, where one slick finger was easily working him open, and growled as Jaskier added a second finger, spreading himself wider.

“You want me like this, or on my knees?” the bard asked, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “How does my puppy want to fuck me?” 

Geralt could feel himself panting, as if his usually slow rate of breath wasn’t enough, so he leaned down and pressed his tongue into Jaskier, along with the bard’s fingers, lapping at his lover, despite the taste of the oil. Then there were hands in his hair, pulling him away from his prize, and he whined desperately, feeling his mouth water.  
  
“No, no, puppy, you need to tell me what you want,” Jaskier gasped out, even as he added a third finger. “Want my puppy’s big cock in me, how do you want me?”

“Like this,” Geralt growled. “Just like this.”

Jaskier pulled his fingers free and groped for the oil, dripping more over his fingers before stroking down Geralt’s cock, slicking him up.

“Then I’m all yours, pup,” he whispered, lying back and looking up at his Witcher. “Come get your reward.”

It was better than Jaskier could have imagined, having Geralt inside him, above him, his weight keeping the bard pinned down. Geralt kept his mouth on Jaskier’s throat, leaving marks and beard burn, and Jaskier kept at least one hand in Geralt’s hair, pulling and tugging to direct him, drumming his heels on the backs of the Witcher’s thighs to demand more, faster, now.

When Geralt finally, finally got to come inside his bard, finally mark him inside and out, he growled through the mouthful of Jaskier’s skin he held in his monstrous teeth as Jaskier cried out and arched, coming all over both of them.

“Good puppy,” Jaskier panted, hand gentling in Geralt’s hair to a slow pet, unsnarling the tangles he’d placed in there with his grip. “Fuck, so good, such a good boy for me. All mine, fangs and all.”

Geralt maneuverered them into their bedrolls, curling up small to let Jaskier spoon up behind him, and let himself drift into sleep, nosing at his bard’s hair. Jaskier smelled perfect, smelled like him, contentment, earth, and home.

It was Jaskier who brought it up, though indirectly. Every time they fucked, Jaskier would be panting, begging, telling Geralt ‘anything, you can do anything’, and Geralt was struck by how sure he was that he wasn’t meeting all of Jaskier’s needs. But asking would mean finding out, and Geralt was… unsure whether he wanted to know that he wasn’t good enough.

So, after several months of this, and Geralt not getting the hint, Jaskier decided to do exactly what had inspired the throwaway comment in the first place, and turned into everything he could think about. When they stopped at the last village they’d see before crossing into the mountains to head for Kaer Morhen before the snows arrived, he realised that was his last chance.

He found another man to fuck him.

It was all going well, Jaskier thought, in the stables with the village’s farrier, a big strong hand down his breeches, almost but not quite touching him how he liked. And then Geralt loomed into view behind the other man, with a look on his face that took Jaskier a moment to decipher. It wasn’t what he’d had before, what he looked like when Jaskier had come back to their shared bed or room and smelled of another.

It wasn’t heat and want. It was hurt.

The farrier seemed to realise what was going on, and turned, quickly, yelping at the sight of the Witcher, who growled at him. He hurried out without so much as a look for Jaskier, who was doing his best not to meet Geralt’s eyes.

“Room,” Geralt said, flatly. “Now.”

Jaskier did as he was told, keeping his head down, not lifting it until Geralt was shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Look, I can - “ Jaskier started, but Geralt cut him off.

“You said you were _mine_ ,” Geralt said, voice quiet and plaintive. “You promised me.”

Fuck, thought Jaskier. He had promised, hadn’t he? And now he’d hurt his Witcher.

“Puppy, I - “ he started, stopping when Geralt flinched at the endearment. “I didn’t want him, I just….”

“Didn’t look like force to me,” Geralt said, tone leaden.

“You can’t always tell, so don’t be so quick to judge,” Jaskier said, but shook his head. “But I didn’t mean like that. I wanted… a reaction from you.” Saying it out loud made it sound like a shittier excuse than it had been in his own head.

Geralt laughed, hollowly.

“Well, you got that. And now you’re going to find somewhere else to winter. Happy with yourself?”

It was Jaskier’s turn to flinch, both at Geralt’s words and the emptiness in his tone.

“Geralt, you don’t mean - “

“Don’t tell me what I mean.” Geralt’s tone was flat, and Jaskier realised with a start that this was how Geralt sounded with people he didn’t trust. How Geralt had sounded when they first met. He hadn’t spoken to Jaskier like that for a long time. “What the fuck did you think I was going to say, when I caught you?”

“I didn’t think you’d catch us,” Jaskier said, before immediately regretting those words. “Not - I knew you’d know, but I thought…. Last time I came to bed smelling like someone else, you….”

Geralt simply stayed silent, watching him. Jaskier swallowed, hard. He suddenly realised exactly what he’d gambled with, exactly what Geralt meant to him, just how hard it would be to suddenly find himself alone after over a decade of walking in Geralt’s tracks. How much he’d miss his Witcher.

“You said you’d scent mark me in a different way,” he said, quietly. “And I - I wanted that, and I should have simply asked you for it, because I didn’t want his hands on me, Geralt, I didn’t, but it was the only way I knew to make you give me that without having to say the words.”

“What. Words.” Geralt ground out, and for a moment, Jaskier was eighteen again, meeting his Witcher for the first time, and frightened but curious, unable to give him up even though the first time they adventured together, they were both almost killed. Then he saw the edge of the collar Geralt wore, the one he’d had made by a very understanding and discreet leather goods master; soft leather, tiny buckle, and Jaskier’s name branded into it. 

Geralt was wearing his collar. Had he been wearing it all day? Or had he put it on when they arrived at the inn, knowing they would have a bed to play on for the last time before the Kaer, the last time there wouldn’t be a number of Witchers capable of hearing every sound they made? Jaskier closed his eyes, the shame of what he’d done and what he was going to ask for burning through him.

“You said....” he started, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You said you’d piss on me.”

There. It was said, it was out there, and if he’d just thrown their whole relationship away, on the same day he’d truly realised it was a relationship, then at least he could claim he had done so because of a sexual disagreement, and not because he’d cheated on a man whose heart had never been given to another before him. He kept his eyes closed, the better to keep back the sting of tears.

There was a moment of total silence. 

“You’d - “ Geralt started, then stopped. His voice had lost some of that flat emptiness, but not enough that Jaskier dared to open his eyes. “You’d really let me?”  
  
Jaskier opened his eyes and met Geralt’s. His Witcher was looking uncertain, like Jaskier might be about to laugh at him and say no, he just said it as a joke. Which, to be fair, was what Jaskier had been planning to say if Geralt had laughed at him.

“I’ve never…” Jaskier started, but trailed off with a shrug. “But I want you to mark me as yours in every single way.”

The noise that came out of Geralt seemed to surprise even him, the low purr turning into a keening whine of want.

“That’s what you wanted?” he asked, carefully, not moving any closer. “You didn’t want him, you wanted me to mark you?”

Jaskier nodded eagerly.

“If you meant it, I want it,” he said, breathlessly. “I didn’t want him. I won’t ever, ever let anyone else touch me again. I’m yours. Entirely yours.”

Geralt smirked, as a thought occurred to him.

“And you decided to do this now, at our last stop before Kaer Morhen?” he asked, lips curving into a grin that showed off his fangs, longer and sharper than they’d ever been before travelling with Jaskier. “What, want to arrive and meet my brothers while reeking of me?”

“I was rather hoping I could have a bath between the event and us leaving,” Jaskier said, with a put-upon sigh. “But if that’s what you want, I can’t exactly argue now, can I? After all, I owe you an apology.”

“Hmm,” Geralt mused. “Where do you want to do this? In the bed? I like this inn, I’ve stopped here every winter for the past seventy years, I’m not sure I want to jeopardize that.”

Jaskier gestured to the empty bathtub by the fireplace, soft, worn wood.

“I thought, maybe… and then we can empty it before a bath?” he said, sounding unsure, for the first time, as to whether this idea was good.

“No, I think I know exactly where I want you,” Geralt growled, stalking closer and hauling Jaskier up, pulling him into a bruising kiss. “Outside. Then I’ll drag you back in and put you in a bath, and no one need know just how much you like your puppy making a mess of you.”

Without looking back, he let Jaskier go and walked out of the room, and Jaskier followed, hot on his heels, as if he were the pup following his master, as Geralt walked them a little way from the crossroads inn, into the woods. Jaskier almost ran to catch up, not having Geralt’s enhanced night vision to help him find his Witcher should he lose sight of him.

Geralt fell to his knees almost as soon as they were in the relative privacy of the wood, crawling a little further on all fours as Jaskier followed him. 

“You’re such a perfect pup,” Jaskier crooned, as Geralt stopped, facing him. “I’ve got the oil, but I bet you want to lick me open first, don’t you?” He laughed as Geralt almost yipped his agreement. “Good puppy.”

Without anything particularly soft to settle on, Jaskier took off his doublet, folding it and putting it under his knees, before pulling his breeches down enough that his arse was fully exposed. He gave his cock a few swift strokes before settling on his elbows and knees, turning a little to look back at Geralt.

“Come on, pup, open me up for that big puppy cock of yours,” he ordered, and Geralt fell on him like a starving man, lapping at his hole until Jaskier felt certain that there must have been a puddle underneath him from how much Geralt was drooling onto him. And then, only then, the perfect pressure of his tongue, pushing in determinedly and fucking him. Jaskier pushed back against the intrusion. “Fuck, that’s it, good boy, my good puppy, all mine, no one else gets to see me like this, just my puppy.”

Geralt whined his agreement, muffled by how voraciously he was eating Jaskier’s arse, and Jaskier shivered, feeling the gentle scrape of those gorgeous fangs against him. When Geralt pressed a finger into him, he arched his back, pressing back into it hungrily.

“That’s it, puppy, get me wet and open for that gorgeous cock,” he cooed, and then drew in a sharp hiss of breath as Geralt nipped one of his buttocks. “Naughty puppy, we don’t bite, do we? The only thing naughtier than biting would be having an accident while playing, and we don’t let good puppies do that, do we?”

He felt Geralt’s groan more than heard it, and smirked, his own satisfied moan coming as Geralt added a second finger. He rocked back on Geralt’s hand, desperately, writhing with want to the point that, when Geralt spat between his fingers in an effort to add more slickness, Jaskier arched up with a cry, fumbling for the oil and shoving it backwards at Geralt, wordlessly begging for more. 

Thankfully, Geralt took the hint, dumping oil onto Jaskier’s stretched hole and the fingers working it, and adding another finger, knowing he could do almost anything when Jaskier was so overtaken with lust.

“Get in me, pup, please, fuck, Geralt, just get that massive cock in me already,” Jaskier begged, words falling out of his mouth. “Be a good pup, good puppy, fuck me, good puppy.”

Geralt whined as he pulled his fingers free, scrabbling with the laces on the front of his leathers for a moment, before pressing his cock inside Jaskier, taking it slowly as he let the bard adjust. He was panting against Jaskier’s back, trembling with the effort of holding back, of not simply fucking into the bard, and pressed his mouth to the back of Jaskier’s neck with a light press of teeth.

“Fuck, Geralt, so good, that’s my good boy,” Jaskier praised, clenching down automatically and groaning as Geralt suddenly felt even bigger inside him. He’d almost forgotten what he’d asked for, what they were planning to do, as Geralt began a slow, torturous rhythm, steady and deep, but nothing like the frantic, animalistic fucking he’d imagined. “Such a good puppy.”

Geralt let out a low purr, nipping at Jaskier’s neck again, before he slowly came to a stop, not moving. Jaskier made a noise of complaint, pressing back insistently, but Geralt held his hips still so easily that he melted into that grip. And then he felt it, hot pressure inside him, filling him beyond how stuffed he was with Geralt’s cock.

“Oh, pup,” he managed, mouth open with the sensation as Geralt withdrew a little then pressed back in, clearly still pissing inside him, and he felt it spill out onto his thighs and breeches. He was going to be such a mess after this, and he loved it. “Are you - did you get too excited, puppy?”

Geralt keened against Jaskier’s skin, a high, wordless cry of need and want, and Jaskier shuddered, overwhelmed with sensations.

“Naughty boy,” Jaskier managed, as another slow thrust sent hot piss down his legs. He was so hard, he wanted to come, but more than anything, he never wanted Geralt to stop. “Bad puppy, making a - fuck, Geralt, please - making a mess of me.”

“I can smell myself in you,” Geralt growled, his cock twitching inside Jaskier and making both of them cry out. “Marked as mine, inside and out.” His thrusts started to get stronger, bladder forgotten for a moment as he began to fuck Jaskier in earnest, both of them breathless with pleasure.

“All yours, always yours,” Jaskier panted, the wet sounds of Geralt’s cock moving inside him, lubricated with his piss, too much for him. “Covered in my puppy’s scent, so everyone knows who you belong to.”

At that, Geralt snarled, and dug his teeth into the back of Jaskier’s neck. While the bard usually prided himself on being able to hold out, he was busy chasing the high of his filthy pleasure, and as he arched, Geralt hitting that spot inside him so perfectly, he came with a choked cry that sounded more like ‘puppy’ than Geralt’s name.

As Jaskier went limp, his face on the ground, arse up high, Geralt’s pace went from hard to frantic, pounding into the bard with little thought for anything but coming, as fast as he could, and marking Jaskier up in another way. He howled as he came, and Jaskier groaned at the sensation of Geralt coming inside him, filling him up more, cock pulsing against sensitive walls.

“Such a bad puppy,” Jaskier gasped out, as Geralt’s weight settled onto him a little more as his Witcher relaxed, sent boneless by his orgasm. And then he stiffened, twisting his head as best he could to look at Geralt. “Are you not - oh fuck, Geralt, you’ve got _more_?”

Geralt’s bladder had clearly relaxed along with the rest of him, and with his cock softening a little, he was once more filling Jaskier’s arse with his piss. He groaned in satisfaction, but Jaskier seemed to have other plans.

“Get off me, get off me, puppy, out of me, come on,” Jaskier demanded, and Geralt tried to ignore the feeling of disappointment as he pulled free of his bard, unable to stop the stream of his piss now that he’d got started. He wasn’t expecting Jaskier to turn around, as fast as he could, and get his body under the arcing spray, moaning at the sensation. “Fuck, pup, look at you, being so bad, ruining my clothes, making me reek of you.” He reached up with one hand and hooked two fingers under Geralt’s collar, not pulling him in, just letting them rest there, such a casual mark of ownership that Geralt wanted to sob with it.

Geralt could feel his thighs shaking as he directed his stream to better soak Jaskier’s silk doublet - it would no doubt be ruined, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care in the moment, and Geralt couldn’t stop himself from whining as the soft blue doublet darkened with his piss, his scent rising from Jaskier’s body. The noise he made when Jaskier took himself in his free hand and added his own piss to the mix was far more like the monster people thought he was than it was human, and as soon as his own stream stopped, he dropped to lap at the crease of Jaskier’s thigh, tasting the combination of their fluids there. Jaskier’s fingers stayed hooked into his collar, a tangible reminder of ownership and the promise Jaskier had made. 

“Dirty puppy,” Jaskier murmured, as he pushed out his last few spurts of piss, then tangled his wet hand in Geralt’s hair, pulling gently. “Such a naughty, filthy puppy.” He slowly drew Geralt up for a kiss, wrinkling his nose a little at the acrid scent of cooling urine on his lover, but kissing him hungrily anyway.

When they broke apart, Geralt was half-hard again, and Jaskier was eyeing his cock speculatively.

“You’re a mess,” the Witcher murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Wish I could just ride up to the Kaer with you like this.”

“Hopefully with my laces tied,” Jaskier said, with a fond smile. Geralt whined as Jaskier slipped his fingers out from under Geralt’s collar, tucked himself away and attempted to look as presentable as one could while clearly drenched. “I don’t think you want to share me with another Witcher, do you, pup?”

Grudgingly, Geralt put his own cock away, wincing a little at the wetness inside his leathers. They’d need a proper cleaning if he wanted to be able to wear them again. Perhaps they should have got naked, even if that idea didn’t send half as much thrill down Geralt’s spine as ruining his pretty bard’s expensive silks.

“No,” he muttered, nuzzling his cheek along Jaskier’s, before he pulled himself to his feet, then offered a hand to the bard. “I look cleaner than you, for once.”

“Very funny,” Jaskier said, drily, but kissed him again, anyway. “That means that I’m going to try and get up to our room without attracting too much attention, and you get to order the bath from the innkeeper.”

Geralt took a last breath of Jaskier, drenched in his scent, piss almost but not quite drowning out the scents of sweat and sex and come, and purred. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, starting to head back in the direction he was fairly sure they’d come from. “You can have me again in the bath, and then again in the bed if you want. I’ll even let you hump my leg if that’s what my puppy needs. I don’t mind smelling of your come, but I draw the line at riding four more days like this.”

“But you’ll –“ Geralt stumbled over his words even as he took Jaskier by the arm to lead him through the trees and back to what passed for civilisation this close to the mountains. “I mean, would you let me do it again?”

For once, the bard got to take the Witcher by surprise, whirling around and pushing him back against the nearest tree, kissing him hard and grinding his renewed erection against Geralt’s thigh.

“Yes, Geralt,” he said, pulling back, then dropping a soft peck on the Witcher’s lips. He ran his fingers over Geralt’s collar, the look of adoration plain in his eyes. “You can be my bad puppy again. Now come on, I want that bath and I want to get you in me at least once more tonight.”

If Geralt picked up the pace heading back towards the inn, well - neither of them was going to mention it.


	2. Baby Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes Jaskier home to meet his family, and Lambert makes a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert is trans. His pov is used, so he uses 'cock' and 'cunt' for his body. There's a brief moment where he's afraid that he'll be judged for being trans, but everything is cleared up quickly and his pronouns and gender are fully respected.

The trail up to Kaer Morhen was a fucking nightmare, and Jaskier was all but ready to abandon Geralt and leap over the edge of a cliff into an endless gorge, just to get past the cold, when the keep came into view.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, almost tripping over his own feet as he stared up at the towers and the crumbling brickwork. “Is this where you’re going to leave me and no one will ever find my body?”

“Tempting,” Geralt muttered, before pressing his mouth to the only sliver of skin showing between Jaskier’s hat and his scarf. “Vesemir would be furious if I let a corpse stink up his keep.”

“And you’d miss your bedwarmer all winter,” Jaskier purred, and it wasn’t his imagination that Geralt started moving a little faster towards the keep, Roach at his side with a sled they’d needed since the snows had started falling. If he was being honest, Jaskier would admit that it was his fault they’d been caught in the snow – just towards the end of their journey, but still – because he hadn’t been able to get his hands off Geralt after their little… indiscretion at the inn. They’d stayed another three nights, because Jaskier had wanted more of Geralt’s attention, and while they hadn’t repeated that particular sexual exploit, there had been some fairly exhilarating and acrobatic sex.

Geralt turned around and glared at Jaskier.

“You really want to meet my mentor and brothers smelling like that,” he said, flatly. It wasn’t a question. “But you objected to other forms of marking.”

“It was a long walk, pup,” the bard countered, watching Geralt’s lips twitch, the closest the Witcher ever got to a blush, “and I wasn’t the one who was too precious for another round last night.”

“It was snowing,” Geralt protested, but the nickname had done the trick, and Jaskier knew he probably wouldn’t end up being dressed for long after they got inside, Geralt wanting to make sure they were sharing more than just a general scent and a few bruises on Jaskier’s throat from Geralt’s sharp fangs.

“Then you can deal without the extra marking, puppy,” Jaskier said with a smirk as he caught up to Geralt. “Now come on, I want to be inside, naked, and under you in the next hour or so, and that includes time to meet your family.”

The little growl Geralt gave was the greatest incentive to walk faster that Jaskier had ever heard.

They were greeted at the gates by an older man – or, Jaskier realised, a Witcher who was showing the effects of his advanced age, unlike Geralt – who grunted at them as they pulled the sled of supplies in with them.

“Guest?” he asked, and Jaskier wanted to roll his eyes. This was clearly the man who had taught Geralt all his conversation skills.

“Ah, yes, Julian Alf – “ he made a noise somewhere between pain and outrage as Geralt elbowed him in the ribs.

“Bard,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier started to regret his choice to follow his taciturn lover up to the keep for winter. If this was the conversation he was going to get, he might find himself going mad and talking to Roach as well. Or worse, hearing her answer.

“Yours?” the older man asked, and Jaskier tried not to gape. He knew Witchers had odd concepts of ownership and scent marking, he didn’t realise that he would be two steps into the gate before someone questioned their relationship.

“Mine,” Geralt growled, and there was something there, something Jaskier recognised as the same way Geralt had said it that first night in the village in the foothills, when he’d been determined to make Jaskier aware of who he belonged to. It wasn’t just a comment, it was a declaration of ownership – and a warning. Why would Geralt feel the need to warn off his kin?

“Hang on,” Jaskier said, and had to take another breath as both Witchers turned to him. “Have I just nearly frozen my cock off coming up a mountain where I’m to be the castle broodmare?” He tried not to sound like he was more than a little excited about the idea.

“ _ Mine _ ,” Geralt growled again, lower this time, but the older Witcher laughed, the sternness almost vanishing from his face.

“Oh, you’ll do fine up here, bard, if you keep that sharp tongue ready,” he said, and held out a rough hand. “Vesemir, trained these pups into who they are today. Rest of the year, it’s just me up here. Julian, was it?”

“Uh, Jaskier, please, sir,” Jaskier managed, startled at the sudden change in demeanour, and shook the large hand that had been offered to him, bowing a little out of a childhood-ingrained habit of respect. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“And good to meet Geralt’s bard, too,” Vesemir said, easily. “Sing that song of yours up here and Lambert’ll probably cut your throat, but I have to say, I got a better price on supplies the last few years.”

Jaskier shot a look at Geralt, who simply shrugged.

“Who knows, with Lambert,” he said, easily. “Probably not worth finding out.”

He was cut off by a blur that hit him, hard, and rolled him into a snowbank, and by the time Jaskier could focus properly, there was a huge man on top of Geralt, his broad shoulders making Geralt look smaller, even as he pinned the white-haired man down.

“Geralt, you came home,” the man said, gleefully, and leaned down – and stopped. He froze, like a wolf scenting prey – thank you, brain, Jaskier added to himself – and pulled back, standing up and turning to stare at Jaskier. Who stared back.

The other Witcher’s face was broad, with a strong jaw, and soft almost amber eyes, like a trace of brown had been left in them with the Witcher yellow. And the right side of his face was a river of scars, running from his hairline to his chin, carving through plump lips and lifting the corner of the top one, in a parody of that little lip-quirk of a smile Geralt sometimes wore.

But that wasn’t what made Jaskier gape.

“You’re wearing red,” he said, with surprise and joy in his voice. “You mean Witchers can wear colour? Other than black? Geralt, why didn’t you say so, you little sneak?”

The relief in the other Witcher’s eyes didn’t escape Jaskier, because he wasn’t stupid, but he could also see the set in the man’s shoulders, the way he stood like he was seconds from an attack.

“Eskel, this is Jaskier,” Vesemir said, breaking the awkward silence. “Geralt’s bard.”

“Bard,” Eskel said, and someone who didn’t spend a lot of time with Witchers probably wouldn’t notice that the inflection he used was similar to what others might use for, say, ‘whore’, or ‘refuse’. “You brought your bard here, Geralt?”

A second blur slammed into Geralt, but this time Jaskier watched with a smile as the other Witcher, with red, curly hair bouncing as he did so, started to shove snow down Geralt’s shirt.

“Lambert,” Vesemir said, not even bothering to raise his voice, “that’s enough. Come on, bard, let’s get you into the keep. It’s not much warmer than out here, but it’ll do you good to get out of the wind. Eskel, Lambert, help Geralt with the horse and the supplies.”

If it hadn’t been so bitterly cold outside, Jaskier might have stayed there just to watch the three strong, broad Witchers follow Vesemir’s instructions obediently. He tried to tell his cock to settle down, but, well, it wasn’t like Vesemir was hard on the eyes, either. Clearly he was older, but he still had that same breadth and strength all Witchers held, and though his hair and beard were grey, there was a twinkle in his eyes that said he wasn’t too much of an old dog yet.

“Fuck, did they make you all to a specific diagram?” Jaskier asked, too tired and cold and – alright, he could admit it – horny to censor himself. “If you’re all built like Geralt all over, I’ll – “

He stopped when he walked into Vesemir’s back, where the old wolf had stopped.

“Talk to Geralt first,” he said, without looking back at the bard, “before you start saying things you’ll want to take back.”

It was clearly a warning, but, well, Geralt had been giving Jaskier warnings for the decade they’d been travelling together, and it wasn’t like he’d ever listened to them before. But there was something in Vesemir’s voice. It wasn’t a refusal, it wasn’t a warning against saying things completely, just saying them before he’d spoken to Geralt. And Jaskier remembered teasingly saying he didn’t think Geralt wanted to share him – and Geralt’s snarl in response. Ah.

“Wise words,” he said, quietly, and breathed a little easier when Vesemir started walking again.

“It’s been known to happen,” Vesemir said, dryly, though Jaskier could swear he could hear the hint of a smile in the man’s voice. “Once or twice in the last two hundred years or so.”

It turned out that Vesemir had been right, and it wasn’t that much warmer indoors. Jaskier could still see his breath, and kept his hands firmly tucked under his arms in an attempt to stave off the chill.

“Geralt didn’t say he was bringing you,” Vesemir said, settling on a chaise and gesturing to the spot next to him. Jaskier sat, hurriedly, shoving his hands between his thighs for warmth. He could feel the heat of the old Witcher next to him, but knew it would be rude to lean into him. “The keep takes a few days to warm up fully, as we don’t heat it all when there’s only me here. You’re lucky Lambert and Eskel got here first, the big furnace is running nicely, but the pipes are old and the system takes time.”

Jaskier nodded, trying to pretend his teeth weren’t chattering. Vesemir rolled his eyes, and grabbed a fur from the floor, before settling himself as if –

“You want me to… sit with you?” he asked, hesitation filling every word.

“Geralt doesn’t want you frozen,” Vesemir said, and patted his knee. Jaskier felt like he didn’t need the extra warmth, truly, as he could feel the blood rush to his cock even as he knew he was blushing. “Don’t give me that false modesty, bard, I can hear how cold you are.”

He was right, and he hadn’t mentioned anything about how Jaskier’s traitorous cock was behaving, so Jaskier shuffled closer, then squeaked as he was hauled into a large, warm lap, and hastily covered in a thick fur. Jaskier trembled a little at the feeling of those strong thighs beneath him, and the sudden warmth against his cold body, before he settled back, relaxing into the heat of Vesemir beneath him.

“Warmer now?” Vesemir asked, mouth close enough to Jaskier’s ear to make him squirm a little with lust and want.

“Y-yes, thank you sir,” he managed, hating how his voice shook.

“Good. Skin to skin would be better,” Vesemir seemed to take no notice of Jaskier’s little whimper at that, “but this will do for now.”

Jaskier gasped as hot hands grasped his, rubbing them gently to get the blood back into them. It was almost painful, but so good, and Jaskier found himself making little pleading noises, though if asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say what he was asking for. Once his hands were a little warmer, Vesemir’s hands came up under his doublet and chemise, large, strong hands on his ribcage, and Jaskier let himself relax into the warm body beneath him. He could sleep like this, warm and content, and –

The sound of the door opening brought with it a gust of cold air and the heavy footfalls of three Witchers, and then every single part of Jaskier was wide awake as he heard Geralt snarl. He struggled, trying to sit up, but Vesemir held him firm.

“He’s only human, Geralt,” the old wolf scolded, even as Geralt’s snarl grew louder, “and he needed warming. We’ve done nothing but sit together. Now stop that pouting, you’ll scare the lad. It’s not his fault you weren’t here to keep him warm.”

Jaskier peeked over the edge of the fur at Geralt, but his face wasn’t the mask of hurt it had been that night in the stables, when he’d caught Jaskier with the farrier. It wasn’t dismay, either. It was something else, something interesting and dark and… jealous. Geralt was jealous.

“I’m sure there’s room on Vesemir’s lap for both of us,” Jaskier said, with a smirk, and watched Lambert crack up from behind Geralt, slapping his back hard. “Isn’t there?” He fluttered his eyelashes at the old wolf, whose mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh, and finally, Geralt’s growl stopped, and he shook his head.

“Should’ve known you’d end up there eventually,” he said, with a roll of his eyes, then his tone softened. “You didn’t say you were cold.”

“Fucking extra mutagens bastard,” Lambert muttered, shouldering Geralt aside to come and sit on the chaise, easily lifting Jaskier’s legs and settling them back in his lap, before dragging another fur up to cover himself. “We’re all out there freezing our nads off, and you could probably make it up the Killer in nothing but your smalls.”

“I’d pay reasonable money to see that,” Eskel said, settling on the floor by the chaise, with another heavy fur. Jaskier had the heat of three bodies against him now, and found he was nuzzling into Vesemir’s chest without meaning to. The warmth was just so nice – but Geralt was still standing there, looking at them.

“C’mere,” Jaskier said, softly, extending a hand out of the cocoon he was in. “Come warm me up.”

There could have been a lot in that sentence; lust, demanding, anger – but Jaskier’s tone was careful, and sweet, and contained nothing but love.

Geralt did as he was told.

Eventually, they all had to disentangle and ready dinner, but Jaskier was given the incredibly easy job of sitting down, wrapped in furs, nearest the fire. He felt a little guilt at not pulling his weight, but every time he started to get up, one of the Witchers gave him a look, and didn’t stop until he sat back down. At some point, he wagered, they’d work it out that they were treating him too much like a delicate flower, and that he could muck in on the chores.

Even once dinner was ready, and they were in the great hall, settled on long wooden benches, Geralt bracketed him on one side and Vesemir on the other, and they kept him wrapped in furs so it was almost impossible to spoon the venison stew into his mouth. He didn’t dare complain, though, in case they tried to spoon feed him – or worse, took the warmth away and left him sitting there cold. Because it had become increasingly cold in the room as the huge fire in the hearth burned down. There had seemed to be half a tree in it when they’d arrived, but as the night drew in, Jaskier found himself starting to shiver, tucking his hands between his legs again to stop his fingers from going numb.

“You should’ve warned us,” Vesemir said, apropos of nothing, but the way Geralt shrunk in on himself made it clear his meaning was understood. “I would have heated your room as best I could. Right now, the only room a human could stand will be mine, next to the kitchen, and even then, we’ll all need to be there.”

Geralt growled a little, and Jaskier elbowed him in the ribs, a sensation Geralt probably barely felt, what with the thick furs between his pointy elbows and Geralt’s side.

“Mine,” Geralt grumbled, and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, I don’t believe anyone was suggesting an orgy in Vesemir’s bed,” he said, before smiling at Vesemir. “Thank you for thinking of my comfort, and offering your room. I’m very grateful.”

“No need to stand on ceremony here, lad,” the old Witcher said, gruffly, but his smile suggested he appreciated Jaskier’s manners, rare as they might be. “We’ll all be bunking down together, may as well get used to shoving these boys around if they’re not giving you your space.”

“Should make sure Geralt knows not to bite us for trying to keep you warm, either,” Lambert muttered, ignoring the look Eskel gave him. “What? I don’t want him getting all possessive and making it so we have to change the sheets.”

Jaskier watched Geralt’s expression change at that, clearly thinking of another way he could mark his possession that would dirty the sheets, and felt his own face heat up. Lambert’s eyes widened, and Vesemir smirked, while Eskel looked away, and Jaskier reminded himself that they could all smell when he was aroused. Well. That wasn’t going to make sharing a bed awkward whatsoever, was it?

“Might have to let them get their energy out first,” Eskel smirked, raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s like a challenge. “Got to mark your territory, wolf? Can’t keep your hands off him for a single night?”

Geralt’s growl rose in volume as Lambert laughed, until Vesemir slapped the table with his palm, silencing the Witchers at once.

“Enough,” he said, not even raising his voice, so certain he would be heard and obeyed that it made Jaskier shiver a little. “The bard’s getting cold while you bicker, and I would have thought you’d want him nice and warm, Geralt.”

“Yeah, Geralt,” Lambert added, schoolyard sing-song clear in his voice, and suddenly Jaskier could picture it; these three growing up together, or perhaps Lambert a little younger, tagging along like the younger brother behind the older boys. For just a second, he could see what it must have been like in these halls, when they were full of Witchers, and his heart broke a little for the four who were left, with so much space around them that surely reminded them of their lost kin.

And then Geralt had him upside down over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and Jaskier squawked, kicking his legs more in pretence than any actual indignation, enjoying the sound of Eskel and Lambert laughing.

“You beast, put me down!” Jaskier protested, beating his hands theatrically against Geralt’s back. “Eskel, Vesemir, help, I’m being carried away!”

“Hey, what about me?” Lambert asked, eyes dancing with mirth.

“He knows you won’t help him, troublemaker,” Vesemir said, cuffing Lambert gently on the back of the head as they followed behind Geralt, Jaskier making laughing protestations the whole way to Vesemir’s room. Even Geralt didn’t go there without permission, not during the day, and so he waited by the door for Vesemir to open it. “He’s a smart boy, for all he picked Geralt.”

Jaskier giggled and shifted in Geralt’s hold until he could slither down to the ground, though he stayed close, shivering a little.

“We’re above the hot springs here,” Vesemir explained, as he opened his door and ushered the bard inside first, giving a warning glare to Geralt over his head. “Between that and being next to the kitchens, it’s the warmest place in the keep until we get the pipes all full and the place heated up.”

“By which point, the bard’ll have to worry about Geralt’s pipes being full,” Eskel said, not quite quietly enough, making Lambert laugh.

Jaskier spun, hands on his hips, and gave both of them a rude glare that, one day, Geralt would inform the bard made him look like a constipated goose, and stuck his tongue out.

“Careful, or I’ll leave him in your hands all winter, and you can deal with his whining,” Jaskier said, before turning back to look at the bed. It was a monster, probably hand-carved to select specifications, because it would easily fit all the wolves, and the mass of furs and woollen blankets looked like they could crush a small human. “That’s a very big bed.”

“The better to keep you warm, bard,” Vesemir said, with a smirk. He looked at the rest of the Witchers. “Alright, the lot of you, down to braies and into bed – don’t you growl at me, Geralt, or you can sleep on your own tonight – and we’ll see if we can’t manage to keep things a decent temperature.”

There was a door to the side of the room, and the old wolf gestured to it.

“Privy’s through there. Bard first, but the rest of you make sure you’ve gone before bed. I’m not having any of you waking us all up because you didn’t see to your needs.” Jaskier did as he was told, taking as little time as possible to relieve himself and get back under the big fur wrapped around him. When he stepped back out, Lambert barged past him, slamming the door behind his bulk, and Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“Someone’s desperate,” he commented, and watched Geralt twitch.

“Apologies, bard,” Vesemir said, from his place already in the centre of the huge bed, where he patted the space next to him. “I swear I taught them good manners, but they’ve turned out to be a rude bunch of pups.”

The noise Geralt made had Jaskier staunchly refusing to look at him, because if he had to get into bed with some of the most attractive men he’d ever met, he wasn’t going to do it while thinking about the way Geralt whined when he was called ‘pup’, and how Vesemir had just said it like it was a common term for the other Witchers. If he thought about that, the term ‘papa wolf’ was going to sink into his brain and stay there, and – no. Not happening.

Jaskier swiftly undressed down to his smalls, still under his fur, and crawled into the big bed, wincing at the coolness of the cotton sheets beneath him before he was wrapped up in Vesemir’s arms, pillowed on the coarse grey curls of his chest hair, and felt the weight of blankets being pulled over them both.

Geralt took his turn at the privy next, while Lambert slid in behind Vesemir, nosing a little at the old wolf’s neck as if scenting him for comfort, which Jaskier realised was probably uncomfortably close to the truth, and then he had Geralt on his other side, a furnace of familiar scent and skin. Eskel used a Sign – Jaskier didn’t see which one – to extinguish the candles, and then Jaskier felt him settle onto the bed behind Geralt, hands over his waist and brushing against Jaskier’s skin.

“Warm enough, little bard?” Vesemir asked, and Jaskier gave a sleepy little noise that turned into a yawn at the end, and nuzzled up against Geralt. “Alright, pups. Sweet dreams.”

Jaskier was rather grateful that he was too tired to be overly aroused, and he sank slowly into sleep, listening to the slow, level breathing of the Witchers, keeping him safe and warm.

Lambert had never been a good sleeper, but he usually managed to keep the nightmares away for the first few nights, when they were all curled up together. The pressure was extra great with Geralt’s bard in there, knowing that waking screaming would probably scare the human right back down the mountain again, and that Geralt would never forgive him. Even when he’d been in the dormitory with the other boys, he’d been the one with the nightmares, the crying into his pillow in the dark of the night, the one who the other boys threw shoes and eventually weapons at to make him shut up and stop keeping them awake.

Being wrapped up with his remaining pack, the last of his family, always helped to smooth away the edges that had grown so rough while he was on the Path. No dreams then, a good Witcher didn’t let himself become distracted, but coming home to the keep always shook something loose in him that he kept tightly bound when out in the world. After a week or so, he’d tend to settle back down, depending on who let him sleep in their bed and how many nights he spent alone – clearly Geralt would be off limits this winter, and Lambert didn’t know how he felt about that – but the first few nights were a challenge not to slip back into certain other childhood habits. He knew he should have grown out of it, and mostly had, but, well. There was a reason he’d been the last to get an expensive feather mattress, and why he was the only one with a layer of waxed leather between it and his sheets.

He awoke in the darkness, an unfamiliar heart racing next to the slower sounds of his pack, and for a second, all Lambert could think was that someone had come to finish the job, that the rest of the keep would be burned down around them, that there was a traitor in their midst – and then he remembered. Geralt’s bard. He could smell the bard now he thought about it, a sliver of rosin and softwood and camomile intertwined with Geralt’s scent of rich, dark earth under fresh grass, both of them still smelling like the road and horse. It was then that he realised Vesemir must have rolled them over, tucking himself on the outside like the guard dog he was, and pressing Lambert next to the bard, which was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

He could feel the familiar, heavy pressure in his belly, the weight of too much ale and hours of sleep, and an additional pressure of the bard’s leg tucked over his, trapping it, and Vesemir’s arm around his waist. Lambert tried to avoid the panic reflex to jerk and twitch, knowing it wouldn’t help his bladder, and that most likely, he’d just get told off for waking the others – but he couldn’t get out, not on his own, not without waking someone. But he was warm, and the bard smelled nice, and was soft in his arms - it was so easy to let his eyelids flutter closed again, to pull sleep back over himself.

His eyes slammed open at the familiar warm wetness between his thighs, spreading into a puddle beneath him that went halfway up his back, held in the furrow his weight made beneath him. Lambert heard himself choke back a sob as he shoved both his hands between his thighs, making a futile effort to hold back his stream by cupping his hands over his cunt and holding tight. Hot liquid spilled through his fingers as his body shook with anger and misery, furious with his body for betraying him. There was a muzzy noise from the bard, and Lambert froze, the sound of his pounding heart almost drowning out the hiss of urine. How was there still so much in him? He’d even heeded Vesemir’s embarrassing order to use the privy before going to bed.

Lambert lay as still as he could as the last dribbles of piss left him, feeling Jaskier untangle their legs and hoping against hope, to any god that could hear, that the bard didn’t notice they were lying in a huge wet patch.

“Mnghf?” Jaskier said, and then he was sitting up, waking the rest of the Witchers, and before Lambert could tell him not to, Eskel had flicked Igni at the candles, and the room was lit up. Lambert whimpered, hating himself for the noise, and watched as Vesemir pulled back the furs and blankets, revealing the puddle Lambert and Jaskier found themselves in.

There was silence from the Witchers. They all knew Lambert had trouble with nightmares, and that sometimes, this was the result. None of them were going to believe the bard had done it, no matter that they were both soaked. But the bard didn’t know that - maybe Lambert’s pack would let Jaskier think it had been him, give Lambert his dignity… but the bard was looking right at him, just like the others.

And then there was another sound, the hiss of liquid again, the soft patter of droplets hitting the sheets, and Lambert panicked for a moment - surely that wasn’t him again? But his puddle was cooling where it had soaked his braies, not warming up again. Geralt gave a tiny grunt, so loud in the near-silence, and Lambert turned to look at him.

Geralt was pissing the bed. Geralt, the White Wolf, the Witcher so fucking tough that he’d survived the Trials twice over, was kneeling, legs apart, and pissing through his braies onto the bed. The thin fabric clung to the outline of his cock, impressive even when soft, the bastard, and the urine puddled around his knees, overflowing the divots his weight made in the mattress and spilling down to join Lambert’s puddle. Which, for some reason, the bard was still sitting in.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, voice rich with a mixture of disappointment and fondness. Lambert could smell the lust coming off him in waves, but surely that didn’t make sense. Why would he - oh. Oh, fuck, had Geralt found someone who was into that sort of shit? “What a bad puppy you are, making a mess like this, and in Vesemir’s bed, too. Couldn’t stand me smelling like Lambert and not like you, hm? Had to make sure everyone knew I was yours?”

The bard crawled through the puddles, braies almost transparent with how soaked he was, and reached out to trail his fingers across Geralt’s throat, like he - fuck, Lambert swallowed against the lump in his throat - like he was tracing the shape of a collar. Then he turned those almost-luminous blue eyes onto Lambert, and the look of mock-disappointment made Lambert tremble with a thrilling mixture of lust and shame. Jaskier dipped his fingers into the mess on the bed, raising his hand and letting the mixed fluids drip from his fingers.

“I think you know what to do, puppy,” he commanded, and Geralt surged forwards, licking the cooling piss from his bard’s fingers with all signs of enthusiasm. Jaskier didn’t take his eyes off Lambert. “And what about you, baby wolf? Going to come and clean up your mess? Or do I need to rub your face in it to teach you not to have an accident in the bed?”

Lambert whined, need overcoming his shame and fear, and he lunged, almost bumping heads with Geralt, as he tried to get his mouth on Jaskier’s fingers, to lick the acrid piss off those slim, clever digits. Geralt’s tongue fought with his over areas of still-dirty skin to lick clean, until Jaskier pulled his hand away and they both whined.

“Oh, tamed your White Wolf, have you?” Vesemir said, breaking the spell, and making Lambert suddenly realise just what he’d been doing. “No, no, don’t look ashamed, pups, there’s no need for that. But we’ll have to sleep on the floor tonight, until we can get a mattress from one of the other rooms.”

Lambert looked at Jaskier, desperately hoping he wouldn’t see disgust in those too-blue eyes, and finding only lust and excitement. He leaned forward to nuzzle his nose against Jaskier’s side, and then keened as a hand wove itself into his thick ginger curls and pulled, gently, like the bard was testing the waters. Then Lambert let his head be shoved down into his mess, where it was quickly being absorbed into the mattress - and he’d owe Vesemir for that, feather beds were hell to get up the mountain - and he lapped at the fabric, desperately trying to ignore how his cunt was dripping with want. If his smalls hadn’t already been see-through with his bedwetting, they certainly would be now. And Lambert realised, with a start, that Jaskier might not want to play with him, once he knew Lambert’s cock was small, sitting above his cunt, and that the scars on his chest had been made deliberately. He pulled away from Jaskier’s hand, and hid his face in Vesemir’s chest.

“Shh, little wolf, Geralt wouldn’t have brought him if he didn’t trust him,” the old wolf said, petting Lambert’s scalp gently. Another hand stroked along his back, soft and careful. “Anything to say, bard?”

“You going to come curl up with me, baby wolf?” Jaskier asked, petting a little harder along his back, even as Eskel and Geralt started to shift, to get out of the mess. “Even after a wipe down, I’ll still smell of you and my puppy, won’t I? Such good boys, making sure I know how much I’m wanted.”

The noise Geralt made at that collided with the noise Eskel made - sweet want on Geralt’s part and something thicker and more strangled from Eskel - and it was Eskel who took one more look at them all and fled, the door banging on its hinges in his wake. Lambert whined, because Eskel had never run from him before.

“Not about you, little one,” Jaskier said, quietly. “Geralt, do you want to….”

“We need to keep you warm,” Geralt said, with a shake of his head, though he kept looking at the door. “He’ll be fine, I’ll talk to him in the morning. I’ll get some water, too.”

“I’ll help,” Vesemir said, and then they were gone, leaving Lambert alone with the bard.

“Anything you’re not comfortable with, just say,” Jaskier said, slipping off the bed and starting to strip the soiled sheets, so Lambert rolled off the other side and began to help. “Geralt didn’t tell me much about any of you, but… may I speak plainly?”

Lambert nodded. There didn’t seem to be much else he could do, and at least if the bard was going to say something unpleasant, Geralt and Vesemir would be able to hear, and Lambert could hunt down Eskel to curl up with.

“I’ve known men with cocks and cunts, and women with cunts and cocks, and I’m not about to suggest you’re anything other than one of Geralt’s brothers just because of what is or isn’t between your legs,” he said, earnestly, and Lambert almost tripped over in shock. “I recognised the scarring on your chest, even before… well. But it’s none of my business, and so if anything I say is wrong, just tell me.”

Lambert dropped the pile of filthy sheets and blankets he was holding, and then before he even knew he was moving, he had fallen to his knees in front of Jaskier, and pressed his head to the bard’s flat belly, whining near-silently. Jaskier dropped a hand back into his hair, and petted carefully.

They stayed like that for a moment, before there was a cough, and Vesemir and Geralt came in with clean furs, blankets, and a couple of old palliasses, along with some warm water. Lambert didn’t bother to get up, just nuzzled a little closer and let Jaskier stroke through his hair.

“Alright, pups, wash yourselves and your bard off, then come and help me make up something we can sleep on without breaking my back - and no funny business, he’s tired,” Vesemir said, ignoring the twin whines from Geralt and Lambert. “No, not tonight. He’s dead on his feet.”

Lambert looked up and noticed that Jaskier was swaying a little, even as he petted the back of Lambert’s neck, making him shiver. He stood, carefully, and let his fingers dance around the waistband of Jaskier’s smalls, not able to voice the question he wanted to ask.

“Go on, baby wolf,” the bard said, gently. “Help me clean off, and then I’ll go back to petting you. And tomorrow, we can talk about you joining me and my puppy. How does that sound?”

“S’pose so,” Lambert muttered, trying to ignore the flush he knew would be rising in his cheeks. It burned hotter as Jaskier put a hand under his chin and tilted it up slightly - the bard was taller than him, but so were a lot of men - to look him in the eye.

“Good boy,” Jaskier whispered, before leaning in and brushing a chaste kiss on his lips, heedless of the last things Lambert’s mouth had been tasting. “Now come on. Bed.”


End file.
